MB Chapter 18

At Entzi's signal, the man standing behind hauled Count Eliom upright. Bound once more into the same kneeling position as before, the count stared up at him with a look of bewildered anguish.

"I know that the First Prince and House Rubiette wanted this matter handled quietly. The Empress had been supporting the Second Prince under the pretense of neutrality, so they were reluctant to implicate him openly and risk a backlash. And yet the affair grew—and the Empress learned of a certain bastard's existence."

Thanks entirely to you. Entzi's eyes curved.

"Do you know why I'm telling you all this so obligingly? Because I want you to know."

"Ngh... ugh..."

"That I already know everything. And that I find myself very pressed for time at this particular moment."

There was one thing he had not yet confirmed. He had assumed the man was nothing but a fool chasing easy profit—he had not imagined the bastard had such an exceptional talent for letting rats slip free.

"Where did Marchel go? The lady's maid you used and then discarded."

"She's dead—"

"It seems you still have quite a few teeth left for chewing. Doesn't it."

The count's eyes rolled. Whatever gutter this one had crawled out of to become a marquess, he could not begin to imagine—but what was plain was that the thread of his life now lay in the man's hand.

Yet was not the other name for crisis simply opportunity? Whether his opponent was baseborn or highborn had never been a matter Eliom troubled himself over.

It was Balverdi who had dragged him from his hiding place and brought him to this warehouse. They had made no real effort to conceal their origins after the abduction itself.

At first, he had wondered whether they might be some other faction wearing Balverdi's face. Think as he might, he could recall no dealings that had ever connected him to Balverdi.

But the moment he caught sight of Ekser Prebesk's face—the head of the merchant association—the count had been forced to concede: these were Balverdi indeed. Eliom was among the small number of people who would know that face on sight.

Balverdi was one of the top three merchant houses by public reckoning. In the underworld, it was simply the uncontested first.

More than thirty-five percent of underground capital passed through their hands. Even a sliver of that—if he could get his fingers around even a sliver—the count could spend the rest of his life buried in gold. Greed moved behind his restless, gleaming eyes.

"If I talk—if I tell you what you want—what will you give me?"

"Hmm..."

"You'll never find out where she went if I don't tell you! A prince—no, a marquess—surely even you would want to avenge your mother's death? It was all Marchel. That girl, whispering into everyone's ears. I didn't do anything—I only listened to what she said. She was blind with jealousy—she wanted to destroy Eliza, it was all her—"

'Tedious.'

A boot connected with the count's stomach. The man behind him kept him from falling backward, so he pitched forward instead, folding over himself.

"Why do you take such liberties with my mother's name?"

"Kk—hk, ugh—"

"There is no one in my presence you may address so carelessly. Speak with some decency."

The count ground his teeth, gasping. Even beneath the dull, spreading pain in his stomach, he felt the sharp edge of indignation.

What had he done, exactly, that he deserved to be dragged to a warehouse and subjected to this? He could not understand it, try as he might.

All he had done was pass along information to the Empress—information that practically everyone already knew. That was the whole of it.

Granted, there had been a time when he had harbored thoughts of spiriting away Eliza, the Emperor's woman, for his own purposes. But that had come to nothing. And what came to nothing was, by definition, nothing at all.

Eliza had been found already a cold corpse before she ever reached his hands.

That he had spent years living in the shadow of Rubiette's suspicion, terrified his role would be discovered—that alone was enough to make him want to weep with indignation. And now here he was: kneeling before that same lowborn creature, being kicked.

The self-pity that rose in him was so vast it verged on something like grief.

"What exactly—is the point of all this. You've become a marquess. You've risen. However you spent your childhood, you climbed to where you are—and yes, some small part of that is my doing! If I hadn't sold you, Balverdi couldn't have bought you! A wretched child skulking in the shadows becomes master of Balverdi and a marquess besides—you ought to be grateful, and live quietly, and instead you behave like—like this!"

"'A marquess besides'?"

Entzi's lips drew into a thin, ambiguous line. He might have been smiling. He might have been something else entirely.

"I think there's been a misunderstanding. Marquess is not my destination."

"What...?"

"I was born a bastard and looked down upon for it—so I intend to claim my due. I am going to become a Grand Duke."

The count received these words in a blank silence. Then he burst out laughing.

"You, a Grand Duke? Ha! What a deluded little dream! With Alte and Rubiette both keeping their eyes wide open, you think you—some filthy-blooded bastard—would dare—?!"

"And Grand Duke is not the destination, either."

"The further you talk, the more you sound like a madman. Are you planning treason?"

"Not quite."

A small shrug. Entzi bent forward until he was level with the count's eyes.

"Do you know that a Grand Duke holds the right of imperial succession?"

"What...?"

"The order of succession would naturally fall behind the direct imperial line—but if it happened, by some remarkable coincidence, that all of their heads were to come off at once—well. The circumstances under which I might legitimately become Emperor might, through some strange accident, come to exist."

"Emperor... you're—you're absolutely mad."

"Now. I'll give you one final opportunity."

Entzi drew the sword from the scabbard of the man standing beside him. Even in the dim light of the warehouse, the edge of the blade presented itself to the count with absolute clarity.

Whatever social quality had infused the interrogation up to this moment fell away entirely. Something in Entzi's eyes settled into a cold, heavy pressure.

Cold sweat broke along the count's spine. The sword was raised, and its tip lifted under his chin.

"Where did Marchel go?"

The count's dry, cracked lips trembled without stopping. He felt as though his head might leave his shoulders at any moment.

"...Albré. She went to Albré."

"Where in Albré."

"She didn't go by airship—she took a boat. Toward Porsendo Harbor—that's all I know. After that I washed my hands of the whole business..."

Albré. She went that far. He slid the drawn blade back into its scabbard.

Even watching the sword return to its place, Count Eliom's heart refused to stop slamming against his ribs. Cold crept through his whole body; he pressed his eyes shut. Merely seeing Entzi's face was enough for the fear to thicken.

He felt the presence before him turn. He could not bring himself to open his eyes, and so he waited—waited for the sound of footsteps to grow distant.

At last the iron door groaned open. Thin light stabbed at his closed eyelids. 'I've survived'—he was just beginning to breathe again—

"Kill him."

The door swung shut. Thud.

"I thought you would handle it yourself."

"The smell of blood would be inconvenient. Goiyo seems to have rather a sensitive nose."

"Is that so."

Ekser nodded with an expression difficult to read. Then he recalled the question he had swallowed back in the warehouse.

He knew Entzi disliked unnecessary words. But the worry rising in him was stronger than the knowledge.

"My lord—do you truly intend to go that far."

"I don't know."

"...Pardon?"

The moon hung overhead, yellowing and ordinary as every other night. Entzi let out a long breath.

"My birth was never ordinary—neither my blood nor my gifts. Which means an ordinary kind of happiness was never possible to begin with.

What I can do is climb. Higher, in the kind of place that is not ordinary—and then higher still. If being master of Balverdi isn't enough, then Marquess. If Marquess isn't enough, Grand Duke. If even that falls short—then in the end, Emperor."

He continued in the same level tone.

"I intend to take everything there is to take. Perhaps if I do, the emptiness I have felt since the day I was born might fill—even a little."

"And if it doesn't fill even when you've become Emperor?"

"Ekser—what do you think I would be like, as Emperor?"

Ekser's expression shifted in a way he could not quite prevent. The question did not easily invite a positive answer.

As master of Balverdi, Entzi had led the organization well enough. He was sharp and capable; his instincts were sound; above all, he had an eye for people and an uncommon ability to place the right ones where they were most needed. When something was required of him, he learned it; when something was lacking, he worked.

But all of it—all of it—came from the fact that Entzi had genuine feeling for Balverdi. He was not generous toward things outside his embrace.

Taking an empire would not mean taking all of an empire to heart. If he became Emperor—

"I would become a tyrant. Or be pulled down by someone else's hand. One or the other."

"My lord!"

"I know my end cannot be anything like a happy one. Even if I were to become Emperor, I have long suspected it would change nothing.

"And yet I cannot step off a train already running toward the cliff's edge—because if I stop, nothing changes. Nothing moves." A pause. "I am afraid of standing still. Not a single person has ever looked back for me when I stopped."

The words fell quietly, and Ekser's lips parted. He wanted to say something—anything—that might serve as comfort. But that kind of eloquence had never been available to him.

"I sometimes wonder if it would have been better—if it hadn't been Balverdi that found you, my lord."

"There's no point in that thought, Ekser."

"...My lord?"

"If Chloe hadn't bought me, I would have been sold to some degenerate with particular tastes and ended there. The world does not produce rescuers on demand. That is simply how the world is."

Which is precisely why he holds so tightly to the promise he made with Chloe.

To dispel the mood settling over them, Entzi reached for another subject.

"I had nearly forgotten—have you finished the investigation into Therio Alte?"

"Yes. Though—will you not go inside? It's late. Tomorrow morning would—"

"I won't sleep even if I go back."

Entzi called a certain face to mind. He had not imagined that having someone beside him in bed would occupy him so completely.

The faint shift of weight in the mattress. The small sounds she made in sleep—all of it had poured into his ears without mercy, and after lying awake until dawn, having planned only to drift briefly and then rise, he had not managed a single moment's sleep.

'I've slept alone so long I've apparently grown accustomed to it.'

He swallowed down the odd sensation humming somewhere in his chest and accepted the file Ekser extended to him.

"The original Duke of Alte was Giselle Alte, it seems. Upon Giselle's death, the dukedom passed to her husband Kontraz. After that—a remarkably uneventful life, by any measure."

Therio Alte's mother had died when he was around four years old—young enough that he would have known little of the loss in the moment. He might have felt the absence as he grew older. But by Entzi's reckoning, it was a life that didn't even clear the threshold of misfortune.

Setting aside that his own standard for comparison left most of the world looking comfortable by contrast—his deeply rooted contempt for Therio Alte made the man's life look positively pastoral.

"There's a younger sibling who's just turned eighteen. The ability isn't bad—a little more seasoning, and he'd make a sound heir."

"My lord—are you thinking of replacing the head of House Alte?"

"Only a passing thought for now. Don't interrogate me at every turn—it's tedious."

Entzi skimmed the pages and stopped at one.

Brown hair. Brown eyes. A face of lyrical, elegiac quality. Pallid skin of a particular whiteness that struck him as oddly familiar.

"This face..."

"That is the former Duke—Giselle Alte. Therio Alte's mother. As you can see, my lord, she resembles the mistress."

"Resembles her? Goiyo is considerably prettier."

"...Pardon?"

Entzi ignored Ekser's bewildered look and let the corner of his mouth rise, slightly.

'So that was why Therio Alte had persisted in circling around Goiyo, trying to hold on to her and hold her fast—longing for his mother, all along.'

He was beginning to understand what Therio had been reaching for.

Not that it mattered. Whatever Therio Alte reached for, there was nothing left for him to take from Goiyo now.

Entzi turned to the last page of the file and passed it back to Ekser.

"Is there any blood relation between that woman and my wife?"

"None within six degrees. Further back, there might be something—shall I look?"

"No need."

Everything concerning Therio Alte—on hold, for now. Entzi's eyes darkened, settling into something quiet and still.